As One to the Sun (I Turn to You)
by high.fiving.jesus
Summary: The blasted child showed up on his doorstep and wouldn't leave without him and she wanted to go to Storybrooke-wherever the hell that is-and he just wants this all sorted. (But he also might maybe want to believe her, too)


At this point in his life, Killian Jones had been half-expecting the little girl with her dark hair and her light eyes, presenting herself haughtily on his doorstep and claiming to be his daughter.

Well. Not _her_ exactly. Maybe a petrified new mum—over the phone with the wails of a babe in the background, or at his apartment with the child asleep in her arms, violently whispering—_accusing_—him. Or, even better, still bloody _pregnant_ so he'd have just a bit of a heads up.

And perhaps _expecting_ was the wrong word. It was more that he wasn't surprised. He hadn't taken terribly many women (and nearly all of them had dark hair, it wouldn't be impossible to rope him into something that wasn't even his sodding business) but if he had the need to scratch an itch, there wasn't much his face couldn't get him.

So no, he wasn't really surprised by the concept of there maybe possibly _someday_ being a baby involved. It would be just his luck to skip over the getting-to-breathe-just-before-the-plunge bit and right into the is-that-a-boy-wow-dad-check-out-boys-who-knew-right bit.

She looked about eleven. That's when boys stop having cooties, isn't it?

She was a pretty little lass, with a stubborn jut to her chin and incredibly expressive eyebrows. (Okay, yeah, that was possibly his doing) She looked up at him with her hazel eyes and crossed arms, asked, "Are you Killian Jones?"

He nodded.

She nodded. Her arms unwound themselves and she pushed past him, leaving him gaping in the mouth of his apartment and at an utter _loss_ because what the hell, before sliding onto a bar stool and saying, "I'm Macey. I'm your daughter." She looked about for a moment, stopped pointedly at his jacket thrown haplessly on the back of his couch and raised her eyebrow, and then said, "Do you have any juice? I'm partial to orange."

Which is how they ended up sitting across from each other with locked gazes, her coat and scarf on his hat stand, and half-drunk glasses of water (just her luck he only bought apple juice; she scolded him thoroughly). He hadn't a bloody clue on what he was really supposed to do because he couldn't just kick her out to the mercies of Boston, now could he? And in that not-knowing, half-aware state, he had split his birthday cupcake right down the middle, strawberry filling spilling over his fingers, and slid her half on a napkin from Krispy Kreme's.

(_"Oh—happy birthday, Papa."_)

(_"Can I call you Papa?"_)

(He didn't know what to say)

Looking her over, he could see it—the resemblance. Had been seeing it all night. But he wasn't going to admit out loud that he was vulnerable to her persuasions. Not just yet. Because he just knew from looking at her bright eyes that she'd sniff out his doubt and convince him (and it would really take nothing at all because, _gods, _a family) and then his life would change, rather drastically—he could only imagine how her mum had felt so many years ago, wondered if she had been alone, wished he had _known_—so if he took a moment to breathe, no one could blame him.

Macey Swan—_Jones, she was a Jones now_—was particularly interested in cataloguing his mannerisms. How he kept scratching behind his ear, how he pressed his lips in a tight line and rose his eyebrows at her, how he was right-handed, how he drafted his words in his head like she liked to do. This was her dad—_finally_—and she craved every moment in which she could get to know him.

"So," the girl started, sliding out of her seat and holding her empty glass in both hands. Something about little fingerprints squeezed his heart tight in his chest. "You should probably pack, huh?"

"Oh?" Killian's eyebrows shot up, he tore his gaze from the cup in her hands, and his lips tilted with slight amusement. "And why is that?"

"So we can go home."

He leaned back, hesitating. If Killian hated anything, it was false hope. There was not a bit of him that wanted to be cruel, so he had to take care how he handled this. "And where, exactly, is home?"

"Storybrooke, Maine," she told him seriously, as if the name were not completely ridiculous. She raised her glass. "Where can I put this?"

"In the sink." She did as she was told. "And I'm not just hauling my ars—_butt_ to Maine. I don't even know if I'm really your father." And then, come to think of it, "You've no idea what sort of man I am. Your parents never taught you about strangers?"

She heaved a long-suffering sigh and dropped her elbow on the kitchen island so she could lay her head in her hand and look at him dramatically. Her other hand lifted and rested on the counter as she spoke. "Papa. Please. You're my dad. I did my research."

He matched her position and spoke in much the same tone. "Lass. Please. I'm going to need just a bit more than your word to go on. Who's your mum?"

"I can't tell you that."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I _can't_."

"Look, kid—"

"You don't know her!"

His expression dropped alongside his patience. "Perhaps you don't yet understand the intricacies of reproduction, but I assure you that if I am your father, then I _know_ your mum."

Macey groaned irritably and dropped her hands by her sides. "You can't _remember_ her!"

And that was that. It all seemed rather ridiculous to him, the story she was spinning, because Killian had a rather reliable memory and he prided himself on not getting caught looking like an arrogant prick who can't bother to at _least_ remember a face. So yeah, _maybe_ she was his, and _maybe_ her mum wasn't that memorable, but like hell was he going to get anywhere talking in circles with her. Suddenly he moved towards his landline and set his finger on the 9.

"Perhaps the cops can sort this, hmm?" he said with every bit of bravado he could muster. Involving the authorities wasn't his usual method for handling… well, _anything_, but the circumstances weren't normal and he was sure her parents were worried sick.

(He'd be worried sick)

"I'll tell them you kidnapped me."

Supposed-father studied supposed-daughter, looking for a lie. She seemed wholly prepared to do it. And it would be hard to explain why he had a child in his apartment—a child that was _probably_ _not_ his, but on the other hand _possibly_ _was_. Either way, it would be suspicious and entirely believable that he was some form of creepy. "You won't," he said with a spark of uncertainty.

"Try me."

And blast him if she didn't look every bit as serious as he was bluffing. He put the phone back in its cradle.

Killian ran his fingers through his hair and tried to think very rationally of a way to handle the most ridiculous moment of his life. He tried to set the thought in a glass case, to study it from every angle and plot out possible endings but—

But all he could see were her eyes and her dark hair and the sharp curves of her dark brows and the rounded apples of her cheeks. The slight smirk. The dimple in her chin. And all he could think was how empty his apartment was, with only just enough furniture to make it livable, but nothing like pictures or trinkets pulled from memory or baubles from people he's loved—nothing to make it _home_. Because there had never been… enough.

There had never been enough people, not beyond his mum buried in England and his dead brother lost at sea. Beyond the people who inevitably left—were _taken_ in the end. There had never been enough things to give him reason to buy a coffee table or an end table or a dresser or whatever the hell else other people had. There had never been enough time, or money, or damn self-worth—

_Dammit._

_If_ the girl were telling the truth, _if_ she were his daughter, then he owed it to her to at least see her safely home.

And he owed it to himself to find out the truth, to find out if he possibly had family.

And _maybe_ a small part of him even welcomed it.

He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and relented. "Fine. _Fine_. I assume you know how to get there?"

And Macey practically _glowed_.

**A/N: Yeah, I don't know. **


End file.
